Portrait of the Dunadan, Vol 1
by Maranwe Elanor
Summary: Vignettes from the life of Aragorn, Arathorn's son, written for OAA. Includes Elrohir, Elladan, Gilraen, Legolas, Halbarad, Gandalf, Elrond and Denethor. Added Chapter 17: Little Hurts. Estel gets a boo-boo. Gilraen learns something.
1. Accosted, Aragorn, G

Title: Accosted  
Prompt 1: Lost  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: These ficlets are all inspired by the weekly prompts at the yahoo!group Aragorn Angst. Most of them will be around 500 words, in accordance with the rules, but some are longer. They stand alone and are not connected in any way with my previous stories, and sometimes not with each other, but most of them exist in the same general universe. I think.

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There was something disarming about a small child with large eyes and rosy lips – especially if tears sheen the eyes and protruded lower lip trembled. Such a look, bestowed with utter trust, would crumble a heard of stone.

Strider, Ranger of the North and Chieftain of the Dunedain had been accused of many things, but so far not that.

With an inward grimace and a small smile, Strider pushed away his haste – his tidings were not so urgent they couldn't be delayed a few hours – and knelt before the child who had accosted him with fearless confidence and devastating tears – even if they had yet to fall.

"What is it, child?"

The lower lip trembled harder. "I c-can't find Mama or P-papa."

"I see. Where do you lat see them?"

The child turned and pointed.

Strider followed the small finger with his eyes, and sighed. She could be indicating any stall or shop along the market. He gained his feet. "Let us see if we can find them, shall we?" He held out his hand, but instead of taking it the child raised hers.

With another sigh, he consented and lifted her easily onto his hip.

Picking a shop at random, Strider found one of the workers and stopped him with a touch. "Good sir, do you know this child?"

When the man turned to her, she buried her face in Strider's overcoat before peeking out shyly at the man who peered at her, his head thrust forward on his thin neck. "Oh, aye." He nodded. "That's Korvil's daughter, that is. Jesibelle."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"Eh – you might try the Blacksmith."

Korvil wasn't at the blacksmith's, though he had been. The soot-covered man suggested the tanner. The tanner, who had bid him farewell near an hour earlier, suggested the baker. The baker suggested the cobbler.

Strider was just thinking he could run around the whole town and never catch sight of the child's parents when a woman's cry split the air.

"Jesi!"

The child perked at her name and stretched out her arms. Strider stopped and turned, and the girl twisted in his arms to keep her mother – for that was who he believed the approaching woman had to be – in view.

"Let go of my child!" the woman demanded, fairly shrieked, but she paid him no mind and snatched her child from his willing arms before he could reply, wrapping the girl in a tight embrace that the child returned happily, now crying.

Strider pulled his cloak closer around him a bowed. "Good day, my lady."

He left the town with remonstrations about "that horrid man" in his ears. But when he chanced a last glance over his shoulder, he saw the girl watching him, her face still wet, and when she saw him watching her, she waved.

He waved back, and ignored the scowls that followed him from the village with a small, rather rueful, smile.


	2. Bearing Burdens, Aragorn, Elrohir PG

Title: Bearing Burdens

Prompt 2-inspired: Rain

Author: Maranwe

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

The drops fell hard and fast, quickly soaking the earth and dripping from the verge to run in rivulets over graded earth, funneling down and running together over previously eroded paths until, a stream, they reached the Bruinen and disappeared into the rapid flood.

Aragorn could not see this mad rush of water from his bedroom window, but he could imagine it well, having hunched his shoulders against the relentless torrent and slogged through marsh and mud and sudden streams over long and weary years. The last endless trek was barely five days distant. He rubbed his thigh against remembered pain.

Then a knock sounded at the door.

Aragorn glanced that way but had not yet decided to speak when a fair face crowned with straight, dark hair poked around the edge. Elrohir, he noted, and drew his leg up onto the ledge upon which he sat. Draping his arm over his knee, he cocked his head.

Elrohir smiled, entered, and closed the door behind him. "Father sent me to find you."

"As you can see," he said, "I am resting."

"You could have told Father you wished to rest in your room," the elf observed, moving only to the bed. "You know well your injury is not so grievous that he wouldn't have allowed it."

"I know." His fingers traced the path of a raindrop down his window. "I just wished to be alone."

"Would you that I leave?"

Aragorn hesitated, then shook his head. It had been many months since the twins had last ridden with the Dunedain and he had missed his brothers. Idly, he wondered if that bereavement was part of the shadow on his heart, or if their presence simply made the shadow easier to bear.

"Does it get easier?" he asked.

"Does what get easier, Estel?"

For a moment, Aragorn was tempted to hold the question, as he had when Halbarad had attempted to aid his chieftan. He pushed it aside. "The hatred. The disdain. Do they get easier to bear the longer you labor under them? Does the heart finally harden against the sting of recrimination earned with good deeds?"

Elrohir shook his head. "Do not wish your heart to harden, my brother. You would deny yourself your greatest strength. Rather, look to the situation from their perspective. Most of those you protect have never ventured from the safety of their lands and villages. They hear naught but stories, legends and rumors – how hard do you think it is to believe the world all Shadow and Darkness when they are too afraid to venture forth and learn the truth?"

In a flash of bitterness, Aragorn wished to shove them into the Darkness to see what he and his kin labored against.

"They may not know it here." Elrohir tapped his temple. "But they know it here—" His hand covered his heart. "—that the presence of the Dunedain confirms the fears they harbor are truth. Darkness roams the world. They simply lack the skill to discern its true form."

Aragorn stared intently at his brother, reminded of something his foster father had said years ago – that not all men were warriors and could not bear a warrior's life – then smiled ruefully. "You have not answered my question."

"Well." The elf jumped to his feet. "Their insults are simply their way of saying 'thank you.' After all, if the Rangers are the foulest creatures they know, you may be sure you've done your job well."

When Aragorn turned back to the window, the deluge had stopped. The sun broke the clouds.


	3. A Fruitless Search, Gilraen, Legolas, G

Title: A Fruitless Search

Prompt 3-inspired: Riddle

Author: Maranwe

Rating: G

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

Estel rolled out of bed still half-asleep, assured by the sun in his face that it was time to be up, and made a quick grab for his bow.

He came fully awake when his hand closed on empty air rather than smooth wood, and for a moment he blinked at the empty stretch of wall beside his bed in consternation. He knew he had left it close at hand when he went to bed last night, as his brothers and the newly arrived Prince Legolas planned to oversee his archery practice this morning.

Frowning, Estel dropped to his knees to look under the bed. He found his slippers, several socks, one of his dress robes, an old play-shirt, still dirty and crumpled from his outdoor romps, and even a handful of wooden figures he'd apparently forgotten to put away, but not his bow.

Pushing up onto his hands and knees, he scanned the floor, then the wall, both empty, and turned to look behind him.

He flung up the lid to his toy chest. Never had he considered his bow or his sword a toy – his Ada had only allowed him to have them with the strict understanding that they were not to be played with – but since neither was as large or sturdy as the other weapons to be found in Rivendell, he thought his mother or one of the servants might have seen his bow and thought he had left out a toy from his games.

The bow was not on top. He pulled aside the bag of figurines, the foot-long wooden sword Elladan had gifted him when he was four and hadn't yet gotten rid of, several horses, some rocks, but when he reached the building blocks at the bottom he pulled back. It had not somehow gotten shifted to the bottom. It simply wasn't there.

He turned instead to his wardrobe, opening the doors wide. The only thing that greeted him were rows of clothes. Frustrated, he backed away. In the center of his room, he turned a complete circle, trying to see a possibly place he could have put his bow, but for naught. There was nowhere else.

A sharp knock brought his head to the door in time to see his mother look round the edge and smile upon finding him not only up but dressed – aside from leaving his bow beside his bed in easy reach, he had taken the added precaution of sleeping in his archery clothes to ensure he was ready early enough.

"Good morning," she said. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Morning," he said. "Mother, have you seen my bow?"

She frowned, then half-retreated, turning to look into the living room. "Get your boots on, Estel," she directed. "We have company. We'll find your bow in a minute." She closed the door behind her.

Sullen, he recalled his foster father's directive that if he could not keep up with his possessions and take care of them, that he would not be allowed to keep them – and that that had gone double for his weapons. Whatever his mother said, he doubted he would be allowed the promised archery lessons because the only visitors they were expecting this morning were his foster brothers – and now they would know he had misplaced his bow.

When he emerged from his bedroom into the common room he shared with his mother, it was not to find Elladan or Elrohir. He stopped short upon finding the golden-haired prince of Mirkwood talking quietly with his mother.

Both turned to look at him, and to his surprise, Legolas smiled. "Your mother tells me you have misplaced your bow, is that right?"

He gulped and nodded. "It is not where I left it last night." He still could not figure out how it was not.

"I'm afraid I must beg your forgiveness, young Estel," Legolas continued, prompting a confused frown. "And to your Lady Mother, for I convinced Elrohir to sneak into your room last night and take your bow."

"Why?" He did not think he had done anything to make the prince angry with him.

But Legolas smiled. "I wanted to inspect it. And when I did, I found what I thought – that it is too small for you and not suitable for our practice."

"So I am not going to get to practice archery, after all," Estel mused.

Legolas laughed. "No, indeed. At least, not with that bow. But perhaps, if it meets your approval, with this one."

In amazement, Estel looked upon the new bow, a scaled match for the prince's own, with leaf carving down the length, polished and smooth, and Legolas was left no doubt as to the boy's answer when he reached out and took it into his hands though Estel could not, at that moment, find the correct words.


	4. Dwindling, Aragorn, Halbarad, PG13

Title: Dwindling  
Prompt #4: Broken  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG-13-ish  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

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The wood was silent, truly silent, not just missing the chirp of insects or the singing of birds, but also those sounds which had come in the wake of the first silence – of clashing swords and heavy steps, hasty cries and foul tongue, the thwack of blade on flesh.

In this silence – the one following battle unlooked-for – Aragorn charged into the clearing, heedless of any enemy sword. But he came too late. The glade, as the rest of the wood, was silent.

Black blood mixed with red and ran over freshly turned dirt, soaking it and turning earth to sludge.

Around him, the rest of the company arrived in his wake, and while two remained to sift through the dead, the rest melted back into the woods to ensure any living orcs were gone and would not plague the dead or living that tended them.

Aragorn, though he knew his duty, fell to his knees beside the closest of his kin that lay felled. Bending, he looked into the man's face – Thalion, was his name, though death had stolen the light from his eyes and color from his cheeks, taken the peculiar quirk of his lips that always betrayed his humor when nothing else did.

His mind wandered to the wife and child Thalion left behind even as his eyes wandered, noting first the sword arm cloven from body and the sword still clasped in strong hand, then the orcs hewn around his friend and kinsman, all dead, two similarly bereft.

Aragorn's hand clenched in the folds of Thalion's overcoat. He lifted his head to take in more fully the carnage in the glade. Twenty-five bodies he counted now, five his kinsmen, the rest . . . and how many more left living to plague his kin and the rest of Middle-earth?

Halbarad finished checking the dead as Aragorn watched and, upon an unseen gesture from Mendil, nodded and approached his lord. "All are dead," he relayed. "What orders, my lord?"

Blood trickled down and soaked into his leggings, and he could not tell if it was black or red. "Carry clear our dead. We burn the Orcs ere we depart."

Halbarad did not ask for what purpose they would depart, but bowed his head and whistled a three-tone note, answered shortly. At a gesture, Mendil disappeared into the brush, and Halbarad set about gathering the fallen rangers to a more dignified rest, and after a moment Aragorn moved to aid him.

They worked in silence, their grief and troubles shared. For every year, their numbers fell, and every year the Shadow lengthened and the number of orcs grew. Five Death had here stolen from his service, shattering oaths and bonds as it had shattered flesh and bone. How many more would follow ere the year was out?

How many more must he fail before Death came for him, or the future the Wise foretold came and he could finally see the hope he clung to with his own eyes?


	5. Jumping at Shadows, Aragorn, G

Title: Jumping at Shadows  
Prompt #5: Lack  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed. You make me smile, and you help keep me coming back to this fandom even when I think I'm done.

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The inn at The Prancing Pony was boisterous, but Strider did not take part in the merriment. He sat in the back, in the corner, with his cloak wrapped around him and his hood over his face. He kept his legs stretched out for comfort and his hands wrapped around his tankard, the better to dispel suspicious scrutiny.

The regulars ignored him, used to his silent presence. Most of the newcomers from the group Butterbur introduced looked over him without seeing him. They wore no weapons and he passed over them in kind.

But there were two – Masters Helm and Derby, if Butterbur got their names right – who caught sight of him quickly and never lost sight of him after if they could help it. The first, Helm, was short and portly, with round cheeks and small eyes opened wide so Strider was almost inclined to think his regard innocent. Helm seemed to feel Strider's gaze, looking away quickly ere looking back. He rung his hands and bounced his knee nervously.

Derby, then, was opposite – tall and thin, with a long face and sharp eyes. He didn't move any more than he had to. And once he sat down, and the conversation had picked up around him, his gaze never deviated.

Strider watched them for awhile, discerning their weapons and attempting to discern their purpose. Both men had swords, he could see the hilts and the scabbards, and knew from the way they walked when they entered that neither was comfortable with the weapon. They were more comfortable with knives, with methods up-close and personal.

He wondered, idly, if one of them meant to lure him into a dark alley while the other snuck up behind him to slit his throat.

Butterbur stopped by the newcomers' table to pour out more ale, momentarily blocking their view of him and his view of them. Freed from their gaze, he studied the rest of the room, wondering now if that wasn't the idea – distract Strider with an obvious ploy then come up behind him.

He shook his head and forced his tensed shoulders to relax. For all he knew, they were simple travelers who'd never seen a Ranger before or thought him a vagabond.

He started, though, when Butterbur moved away and Derby was gone – vanished as if into thin air. Logic said they wouldn't move on him here, now, with no way to sneak up on him.

But they acted as amateurs.

He hissed when Derby came back, shaking his hands free of water before wiping them on his shirt. The man smiled as he sat down and made a comment – "It's good to have a proper loo again," unless Strider read his lips wrong.

Strider clenched his teeth. Were they simple travelers?

He doused his pipe and downed his ale, paid Butterbur, then left. Once outside Bree, he found cover and waited but no one followed. Shadows deepened and night fell.

Still, no one came.

Strider sighed and rubbed weary eyes. He needed to rest. Mayhap it was time to return to Rivendell.


	6. In the Wilds, Aragorn, Halbarad, G

Title: In the Wilds  
Prompt #6: Outdoors  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: Sorry this is later than usual. By the time I remembered I was supposed to post last night, I didn't feel like digging out my flash drive. Or editing it. But next week I will be home, so the next chapter-vignette will be posted as scheduled.

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The wind out of the north was strong and bitter-chill. When Strider looked into it, his eyes watered. He pulled his hood further forward and burrowed closer into his cloak, holding it tight about him.

Across from him, Halbarad did the same, his gaze focused instead on the fire that sputtered and jumped between them, the wind occasionally driving it horizontal and nearly quenching it.

Then grim grey met somber slate. Strider considered the question in that gaze and tipped his head in agreement. They would need to move on ere night fell. He, too, smelled snow in the wind.

The trees bent and rustled. Long ago, they had shed their last leaves and the empty branches scratched against one another, as if seeking to warm themselves. When the wind died they stood forlorn.

Both Rangers hunched against a sudden gust, squinting when dirt and debris accompanied the biting cold. Leaves alighted in their fire before blowing clear, and Halbarad pursued them, stomping out the flickering embers. Strider stood after him and kicked out the fire, smothering the flames with dirt.

He pulled strips of jerky from his pack and held out some to Halbarad. The Rangers ate standing before hurrying on their way. The weather was turning too quickly. They would have to wait for a hot meal until they found suitable shelter.

They headed east. There was a cave some miles distant that faced south. If they traveled quickly, they knew they could make it before nightfall.

Barely an hour later, the first snowflakes fell.

By the time they reached the cave, the snow was falling steadily. It blanketed the ground, and the wind swirled the flakes in eddies about them, sneaking the crystals past their cloaks to melt against their skin and clothes and ice their hair. Their steps quickened with their destination at hand.

But they stopped short just outside. Tracks decorated the ground inside the mouth, traveling further back – wolf tracks, they noted, and they were fresh. Listening closely, they could just hear low growls over the howl of the wind. Confused as the tracks were, he counted eight sets.

Strider glanced at Halbarad. The other nodded, lips tight, and the pair turned south, now letting the wind help them on their way. It was best they put as much distance between them and the wolves as possible before true darkness fell. There was little enough light left as it was.

Strider stumbled over a root he didn't see and felt Halbarad crash against his back a moment later. He caught his balance and leaned back against the hand pressed to his back. "And to think," he said, "that growing up, this was what I wanted most to do and couldn't understand why Lord Elrond wouldn't let me accompany Elladan and Elrohir on the winter patrols."

Halbarad clapped his back. "And to think," he replied, "that I wanted to take a break in Rivendell this winter. Whatever was I thinking?"

"Obviously," Strider said, "you were thinking about last winter."

They exchanged glances, then turned subtly west, the better to put distance between them and the River Hoarwell.


	7. A Mercenary for Gondor, Aragorn, G

Title: A Mercenary for Gondor  
Prompt #7: Alone  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: Here, as promised. And slightly altered from its original version. Hopefully, it's better. Enjoy.

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"Congratulations, Captain Thorongil," Lord Hurin said in greeting, halting the other man's slow trek along the outer edges of the Great Hall. Around them, murmured conversation mixed with music from the bards and minstrels the Steward had commissioned for the feast.

Thorongil faced him properly and bowed. "I will convey your congratulations to my men." He did not smile, nor offer further comment, but waited respectfully.

Hurin shifted under the intent regard, then bowed with a quick smile and made his excuses. Thorongil watched him leave, then resumed his course, sticking as close as he could to the shadows without seeming to skulk and drawing little attention for the moment.

From the sidelines, he observed the swirl of color that comprised the celebration feast – all lords and ladies attired in their best finery, parading before each other and their lord steward. "See," they seemed to say, dressed in silks and velvets, in jewels and finery, "I am a credit to Gondor. I am worthy."

Compared to the worthy masses, their dear captain was sorely under-dressed though his tunic and surcoat were finely made and tailored, his boots shined. The material was too coarse, too plain—too lacking in embroidery and jewels both.

In quiet moments, when he was given leave to consider his position relative to where others viewed him, he felt the difference as a burden – one he was forced ever to view without taking up.

No matter his home or lineage, to Gondor, he could be nothing more than a highly skilled, valorous mercenary, who had won both trust and renown. Love, he would say he had earned; but love tempted the young ladies to smile coyly and their fathers to extol their virtues.

It sparked a peculiar kind of pain to hear his people speak of him remaining when he was bound by the rule of the mercenary. It did not matter how fond he had become of the people, how much he had come to love the city – while Sauron and the threat of the Shadow remained, Thorongil could not more stay than Aragorn could.

"Captain Thorongil." The voice was light and feminine, and he focused on the round face, noting full lips and high cheekbones secondary to gray-blue eyes. He recognized her immediately as the daughter of the lord of Lossarnach, though he could not remember her name. She smiled at him and ducked her head, a touch of red on her cheeks. "Forgive my presumption, but would you favor me with a dance?"

He accepted and offered his arm, unable to deny her shy hope. But as he ushered her across the room, his thoughts turned to Arwen, turned to what little memories he had of them, turned to the future he hoped for.

In that moment, he felt the burden of time keenly. His time in Minas Tirith weighed heavily, dragging at his feet, and the time he had left pressed close, stifling his breath.

Thorongil smiled and bowed when the song ended, and begged her pardon before striding purposely toward the door. Prince Imrahil intercepted him before he made his escape, and he hoped his expression was not as strained as it felt. But, suddenly, he could not bear to be around a people who accepted him when fate demanded he keep his distance.

Excusing himself as soon as it was polite to do so, Thorongil slipped from the hall and into the night. Through empty streets he wandered long, a faceless stranger whose name everyone knew and no one could know, protecting from the shadows as he had ever done, as he would ever do. Until the King should come again.


	8. Helping Hands, Aragorn, PG

Title: Helping Hands  
Prompt 8: Hidden  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

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Strider saw the trader pound upon the merchant's door out of the corner of his eye while watching the road from the shadows. Darkness had long fallen, and most of the lamps which had been lit earlier had been put out as establishments closed and families went to bed. Indeed, the only light along this road came from the moon, three-quarters full, and a street-lamp a lane over.

The pounding increased just before the merchant threw the door open, wearing night clothes and robe with a broom handle clenched tight in his fist. Strider spared them a glance, long enough to discern the merchant would not simply club the trader senseless and return to bed, then returned his attention to the road.

Movement near at hand drew his eye and resolved into three forms: two large, one small, all armed with at least one dagger but not a sword between them. Their clothes were rough-spun, well-worn and ragged.

They glanced about as they drew nearer the cart and Strider shifted into deeper shadows, then went still.

The smallest approached the cart while his fellows remained sheltered, accepting the burdens of their smaller companion in ones and twos, until they were laden, then the three set off.

Strider studied their path, then set off, moving the opposite direction before paralleling their course. He went a street further than he judged they would, found an appropriate chimney, and quietly climbed onto the roof.

Crouching atop the house, he used the chimney for concealment and found the thieves closer than he had expected. He could hear them talking – "Take that up." "No, leave that here." "You go up first." – then soft bumps and the little thief appeared. The boy turned on his hands and knees to peer back over the side.

"Stack this stuff away from the edge," someone instructed and the boy nodded, then accepted the first parcel. He turned away from the edge and set it in the middle.

Strider waited until most of the packs had been lifted up, busy with his flask and some herbs, then snuck out and wrapped one arm tight around the boy's throat, covering his mouth with his other hand. The boy struggled, gripping his arm with his hands and trying to turn his face away. But Strider followed the movement, and the boy was forced to breathe.

He went limp just as his companions called for him to hurry up. Strider moved to the edge and accepted the last of the parcels, careful not to look over the side or let too much of himself be seen. The darkness aided him.

Then the second thief scrambled over the edge. Strider brought the hilt of his dagger down on the back of his head as soon as he was fully on the roof, then dragged him aside. He was back in time to meet the third with the same fate.

That left him with three unconscious men and too many goods for one to carry.

Then a cry went up, rippling along the street. The theft had been discovered. He set his lips, then dug a length of rope from his pouch.

"I've found them! I've found them!"

The cry went up and was echoed, and a group of men bearing torches quickly came to the cry, gathering round where a youth pointed.

Three men, one yet a boy, leaned against a wall by an empty home's front porch, their hands bound behind them, the missing goods stacked by their feet. Between the light and the commotion, the boy woke before the men attempted to rouse him and his companions.

The boy looked, wide-eyed, between the sheriff, the trader, the fire and the pitchforks and tried to push back into the wall. "We didn't mean no harm," he said. "Honest, we didn't."

"I think we'll wait for the light of morning to be the judge of that, son." The Sheriff glared.

Flat on a nearby rooftop opposite the commotion, Strider watched as the rest of the thieves were woken and lead away, the goods gathered and marched back to the emptied cart under the trader's watchful and resentful eye. And, one by one, the lights went out and the village quieted.

Strider rolled over on his back and away from the edge. He watched the stars until dawn wiped them from the sky. Then he slipped over the fence that hedged the city and disappeared into the Wilds.


	9. Drowning, Aragorn, Halbarad, PG13

Title: Drowning  
Prompt #9: Experience  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: It's a little depressing to start a new month and see my traffic graph go empty. But we're starting this month off with one of my favorite ficlets. Enjoy, and happy Independence Day.

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The woods were silent. Eight men stood in the empty clearing: six with bows drawn and pointed, one on his knees in their midst, and one felt more boy than leader.

Aragorn clenched his fists. "Why, Aldor?"

"None escape the Shadow." Aldor stared at the ground. His back was straight.

"That is no reason to betray our Chieftain." Halbarad's voice was cold, angry.

Aragorn felt he should be angry – livid, even, that his trust had been betrayed, but he felt only cold. His breath clouded the air before him. He felt he stood again upon the frozen lake, having reached the center without falling, only to have the ice open beneath his feet.

Cold claws gripped him, raced up his legs to his chest and over his head, their bite deep and sharp, wringing his lungs, wrenching away his strength and control, fastening anchors to his arms and legs as the water soaked his clothes, weighted him down, dragged him relentlessly to the bottom.

"There is no hope against the Shadow. Better a quick death in the Wilds than slow torment in the Tower."

"That was not yours to decide."

"Though your decision seals your fate." Breathing rasped Aragorn's chest. "You understand we cannot suffer you to live."

Aldor looked up, his eyes finally locking with Aragorn's, dark and hooded, shadowed despite the sunlight, and in that moment Aragorn was not alone under the crushing waters, but floating – sinking – beside Aldor. Dark tendrils rose from the depths, twining Aldor's arms and legs, wrapping his chest, digging into flesh, into chest and arm and neck, pulsing with life, taking life, Aldor's eyes growing darker and darker, filling with Shadow.

"Long live the King," Aldor murmured. There was only Darkness in his eyes, a cruel twist to his lips.

Aragorn was aware neither of raising his hand, nor dropping it, but bows sang and feathered shafts sprouted suddenly from Aldor's chest. The man jerked, his mouth opening. Blood flowed out.

For a terrible moment, Aragorn saw again the man he had known in those dark eyes - then the man was gone. He fell forward, revealing the arrows in his back.

"What are your orders, my lord?" Halbarad asked.

Aragorn glanced at his kinsman. "We'll bury him here. Then we head south."

Aragorn walked further into the woods while his rangers worked. The cold still gripped him, and his brothers were not here to pull him out, wrap him in a warm blanket before the fire and tell him stories until he fell asleep, safe and warm.

He did not know what he would tell Aldor's wife. Did not know how he could look her in the eye and name Aldor traitor.

"How many more hearts," he asked the Wilds, "will fail before the Shadow ere the Test?"

The wind, a lonely whistle through empty branches provided no answer. And when he looked, there were many more sinking beside him, though he could not see their faces, and the Darkness wrapped them all.


	10. Warnings, Aragorn, Gandalf, G

Title: Warnings  
Prompt #10: Magic  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: Forgive me my tardiness. I was dealing with car drama. Hopefully. it's settled now and I'll be getting my new car sometime next week, barring any more difficulties. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this little dabble.

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Aragorn opened his eyes on gray mist. It swirled about his feet and shrouded the world around him. He knew this place.

_*Why am I here?*_

The mist billowed up and out and a path stood before him, lined either side by russet stones.

The easy, paved path gave way to loose, shifting gravel no larger than his thumb. They rolled beneath his feet, grating and grinding, and soon were joined by rocks the size of his fist which turned when stepped on.

Further, the rocks still grew: first, the size of his head, then up to his knees. When some reached his waist, he stretched and climbed, scratching his hands. He stopped when he stood before a boulder that equaled his height. The russet stones continued past with no room to go around.

_*Where am I supposed to go?*_

The mist thickened behind him and pressed close to the russet stones at his sides. He let the mist press him forward and found handholds atop the rock. Footholds were harder to find and frequently broke. His knees, as well as his hands, were scratched when he reached the top and found the path once again smooth.

It ended at a stone wall – a cliff that spread continued far beyond his sight. It peeked through the mist and he could see no end, no openings. The russet stones spread twice as wide here and he walked from one side of the path to the other, running his hand along the wall but could find no opening, no hinge, no indentation.

He pushed, but there was no give. There were no handholds to pull.

_*What am I supposed to do?*_

Stepping back to study the wall again, movement caught his eye. Dark, almost black, it traced lines over the stone. He continued stepping back and soon descried elvish letters which read: Speak, friend.

His lips twisted. "What should I say?"

"Say nothing," a brusque, smoke-rasped voice commanded, "and let me have a moment's peace."

"Gandalf?" He looked in wonder at the wizard, in his gray robes and pointed hat, leaning against his walking stick.

Gandalf didn't answer.

When he turned back, lines spilled across the stone, like water down sluice pipes unfettered by gravity, until a door stood before them and nnother word wrote itself across the top: Enter.

He glanced at Gandalf to see what the wizard would do, but mist swirled between them, hiding the wizard from view. He looked to the door. They opened wide, pushed by invisible hands and Gandalf strode through them from the mist into darkness.

Aragorn watched, unable to move his feet. Dread grew in his heart, fire flickering at the edges of his sight.

Then Gandalf fell.

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Aragorn breathed deep and opened his eyes to his rooms in Rivendell. The wooden beam ran across the center of the ceiling. He could feel his pillow beneath his head. His thick quilt bunched against his palm when he clenched his hands. Outside, someone sang.


	11. Marks, Aragorn, G

Title: Marks  
Prompt #11: Hair  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: I realize nobody cares (having come here to read the ficlet) but I got a new car. And I'm really excited. And I just might post an extra chapter tomorrow. To celebrate. How does that sound? (Good, right?) You don't have to answer that. Happy weekend!

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Aragorn splashed water over his face and stayed leaning over the basin to let the liquid drip off. It clung to his beard.

Bracing his hands on the table, the ranger looked up, catching his reflection in the silver mirror on the wall. His hair was greasy and hung in clumps over his face, but it was his eyes he looked at. There was no luster to them, like Arwen had mentioned. If they were sharp, it was with anger and dissatisfaction, not the perception his father and brothers had seen.

And where was the boy his mother always swore she saw? The boy who had run through the valley with his brothers playing Elves and Goblins or Orcs and Rangers, who had wrapped cloth about his head and told the twins that it was so the enemy wouldn't be able to see his pointed ears. He would masquerade as a man and bring the enemy to ruin.

It had been long since he could delude himself so, thinking himself an elf. He had left such thoughts behind and gone to Gondor to seek his heritage among men. He had found honor and courage, as he had expected, but more lasting was the cruelty. All was weariness, and his heart was sick.

His gaze wandered to his brow, which boasted more lines than previously, and down to his cheeks. Using a hand, he smoothed his whiskers and wiped away the excess water from his chin. Then he turned his head side to side, studying the hair growth: coarse, uneven.

It looked scraggly, some hairs longer than others and curled, but he liked it better than the full beard Halbarad sported. He'd let his cousin talk him into it once and let it grow unhindered through a patrol. He'd felt like he was wearing a rug. Since then, he'd always shaved it when time permitted, or when he'd come back to Rivendell.

Aragorn felt the beard again, but felt no desire to shave it. He hadn't since he'd left Lorien, his wounds healed. He'd looked an elf lord – no one had said so, but he'd seen it in Arwen's eyes. He'd dared –

"Men are not meant to be bare-faced," he murmured. But his presumption could not be undone. His heart had been gifted when he was yet a boy, before he understood he couldn't keep pretending to be an elf. Arwen, though, birch tree of many summers, she would not be impressed by youth.

He pushed himself to standing. It was better this way. The boy, already absent, would never return and the man would take his place. The man knew better than to presume to claim what was never his, and knew the cost the boy had never grasped. Those of lesser blood could never ascend to the heights that captivated them; they could only drag those they loved down to them.

Aragorn would not pretend. Youth was gone from him. Never more would he shave off his whiskers, not even here in Rivendell.


	12. Passing, Aragorn, Elrond, G

Title: Passing  
Prompt #12: Time  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: Bonus chapter, in celebration of my new car. Now, if only my muse wasn't catatonic, I'd be good. Enjoy.

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Estel followed Elladan and Elrohir into the courtyard of the Last Homely House. His Ada was standing at the top of the front stairs waiting for them.

Before the first step, the twins stopped and bowed; a step behind and a second later, Estel followed suit. "Greetings, Ada," Elladan said. "Whole and hale, as promised."

Elrond smiled. "Be welcome, my sons." He glanced past them and the twins stepped aside to surrender center stage to their younger brother. "How was your first hunt, Estel?"

Estel's eyes lit up. "It was great, Ada! We saw rabbits and deer, and a wild pig that Elrohir made us steer clear of. And we camped in a tree the second night, but on the ground the third night, and fought Orcs the next morning."

"Orcs?" Elrond questioned sharply.

"Stunted trees," Elladan whispered.

"They were fierce and strong," Estel continued, "but we defeated them, didn't we, Elladan? And now the valley is safe, and we even brought back food."

"A worthy venture," Elrond agreed. "Now, go wash. I will have food brought to the balcony. I would hear more of your stories."

"Aye, Ada!"

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Estel felt a sense of déjà vu when he entered the courtyard following his first patrol with the Rangers – until Elladan and Elrohir stepped aside to talk to Glorfindel and motioned him forward on his own.

Elrond stood at the top of the stairs. He briefly met Elladan's gaze, who nodded, then Elrohir, who smiled. When he looked again on Estel, what he saw pleased him, and he agreed with the twins. He smiled. "What news, my son?"

"The North is secure, Ada," Estel said. "I have much to tell you."

"And I will hear it," Elrond agreed. "Then I have much to tell you. I think it will be to your liking."

"What is it, Ada?"

"In due time." Elrond guided him toward the house with a hand on his shoulder. "But first, you must wash."

Estel rolled his eyes.

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The courtyard before the Last Homely House was empty when Aragorn entered. His steps faltered. Surely word had reached the house? But no one stood upon the front step. He pressed his hand tighter against his side.

"What news, Ranger?"

Aragorn followed the voice, spying the elf lord on the balcony. "News of the North. I am in need of your counsel, my lord."

The fair face settled into grim lines. "Come up to my office. We will talk."

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Elrond found Elessar on the promontory overlooking the city. The winged crown sat nobly upon his brow. His back was straight. His hands rested on the banister.

The elf lord joined him and found the man's face set and grim. In the morning, they would leave for Edoras. They had already spoken, but –

Elrond put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I am glad."

Elessar looked at him – for a moment a boy. Then his expression eased, and though he turned back to the city, he clasped Elrond's hand on his shoulder.


	13. Behind the Glory, Aragorn, PG13

Title: Behind the Glory  
Prompt #13: Change  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

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Thorongil struck – the harbor master fell. Breathing hard, he looked around. The harbor burned. The ships burned. People ran – those that had not already fallen to the sword. Lifting his hand, he whistled, scribed a circle in the air.

He backed as his soldiers ran toward him, scrambling into the rowboats as they arrived, taking up position. He counted them as they passed, scoured the ruins when the ones retreating numbered too few.

There – he saw them. One lay face down beneath a Corsair's bulk, his arm flung forward over the legs of another, sword inches from his grasp. The other was three yards from the first, on his back, head twisted at an awkward angle, eyes wide, mouth twisted, blood drawing a line to his chin. Blood painted the wooden docks black. Blood made them slick.

The last of the men in the rowboats, the full already shoved off, Thorongil set his feet and pushed, starting the boat forward before hopping aboard. Another soldier steadied him, grinning nervously. He nodded.

But he only had eyes for the quay.

Red light danced in his eyes. The flame danced higher, a lance reaching to pierce the heavens. The flame grew broader, licking at boots, at clothes, at hair, at flesh, consuming flesh as greedily as wood. A Corsair stared at him, dark eyes wide, mouth twisted. Blood. . . .

They reached the fleet, hooked the ropes, hauled the small boats on board; tied them secure. The tide carried them out. Wind out of the south carried them up the Anduin.

Orders given, the retreat underway, Thorongil retreated to the aft. He could still see the harbor burn, despite the bluffs that blocked his sight, despite the clouds that blocked moon and stars. The flame danced before his eyes. Dead men stared back at him. His hands clenched the rail.

In his mind, he heard again the sharp clang of steel on steel, until the cool wind blew it away and the clunk of wood replaced it. When he closed his eyes, he was in Rivendell.

"Good, Estel," Elrohir praised. Estel's face stayed grim, his focus on Elladan, on his brother's sword. "Watch your feet."

The practice swords met. Estel held the contact with all his strength – then resistance left. He fell forward, tripping on Elladan's foot. He sprawled on the ground but twisted around quickly. Elladan's sword was at his throat.

Their eyes locked, Elladan's gaze pitiless. Then the elder smiled, removed the sword. "You're becoming quite the swordsman, brother."

Estel grinned. "I'm going to be a great warrior – just like you and El! And no one will beat me."

"So you will!" Elrohir said, stepping into their circle. "But first. How do you feel about a swim?"

Thorongil opened his eyes as Estel's excited cry rang through his mind. The creaking of the ship replaced it. He sighed, regretting the eager abandon that had led him to this path, so filled with death.

It was time to leave Gondor.


	14. Connected, Aragorn, Brego, G

Title: Connected  
Prompt #15: Horses  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: If anyone's wondering where prompt #14 is: it's part of an incomplete mini-series featuring Thorongil. Rather than mix it in with these stand-alone prompts, I will (eventually, I hope) post it (and the rest of the mini-series prompts) as it's own story. On another note, I apologize for this random 1st person perspective. Aragorn is the speaker. Enjoy.

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I first saw him from a distance. Without being able to understand his cries, they yet called to me. I beheld his struggle. I beheld how they sought to bind him. I beheld his pain – soul deep. I beheld their waning patience.

Soon, something would break.

I had covered half the distance between me and the stables before I knew I'd told my feet to move. Something pulled me. What, I didn't know, just that he needed help and I could give it.

At the entrance to the stables, I waved the handlers – there were six, stout, fair-haired, surrounding him, pulling, yelling – I waved them back, waved them quiet. The Rohirrim have robust voices that serve them well, but their volume would not serve here.

"What is his name?" I asked. My heart whispered.

"Brego," someone answered. 'Brego,' my heart repeated. I knew him.

I understood his cries – understood why he plunged, lunged, reared, why he tossed his head, gnashed his teeth, rolled his eyes, pinned back his ears, threatened to kick. 'I lost my best friend!' he cried with every step. 'I lost him.' Every undulating cry past bared teeth declaimed it. 'You can't replace him!'

I felt his terror: to be pinned and saddled, strapped and sent to face that darkness again, without the one who had guarded his back. Staunch and steadfast men had quailed at less. I felt his urge to run.

"Brego, listen to me." Wide, wild eyes fixed on me. Even the handlers headed my call. "Be calm, friend."

I did not need to find the balance between soothing and strength. It sang through my blood, whispering 'we are alike,' and hummed under my words, 'I know your pain.'

"Easy, Brego." _*I will not hurt you, will not hold you fettered when you would fly._* Smiled when he let me touch his face, stroke his nose. "Brego. That is a kingly name."

He whickered by my ear, pressed his nose into my palm. 'I know you.'

The bewildered men had back away. Lead lines had slipped from slack hands. They had watched as, against all sense, I removed the means for control – the bridle first, the ropes tossed over his neck, then, (my hand stroked down his back so he knew where I was) the girdle that bound saddle. All, I removed.

He had turned to me when the weight from the saddle disappeared. Back at his head, I had stroked his face, smiled as he lipped the sleeve of my overcoat. "Some of us were always meant to be free."

He had taken his freedom with leaps and bellows.

I did not understand that shared loss connected us that day. I knew it – long had my heart felt it, but not so strong that it threatened to rend the world and not just my heart. Standing now on the other side of the Paths of the Dead, the host of the Enemy slain or routed before us in defense of Minas Tirith, I feel that rent.

Here, I steal a moment and pay tribute to my cousin – my brother in heart – and wish someone could free me, from duty and destiny and the darkness that threatens us. But no one can. Others may be free. I can free them. But no one can free me. It is mine to face the darkness.

Behind me, a soft nose bumps my shoulder. A quiet whicker brushes my ears.


	15. In the Midst of Battle, A, Denethor, PG

Title: In the Midst of Battle  
Prompt #16: Trust  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: No good excuses here. Enjoy.

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Thorongil met Denethor's fierce gaze over their crossed swords. Surprised not to be face-to-face with the enemy, Thorongil froze. Denethor froze. Around them, the battle continued, but the cacophony faded—the harsh class of swords, the yells of hate or fear, the slick pass of blade through flesh, all fell on deaf ears.

Did he see calculation in Denethor's eyes because it was there, or because the knowledge of a traitor in their midst made him paranoid?

It was no secret that Denethor disliked him. He was a stranger, a foreigner—worse, he fought other people's battles for money. What was to stop him from serving whichever master paid better? Yet he swept through Gondor and claimed—won—the heart of the Steward and the hearts of the people. But what was he without war? Without war he was simply another man, another beggar, another wanderer, but Denethor—Denethor!—would still be the Steward's son, would be Steward after his father.

If his father didn't conspire to supplant him.

Thorongil knew Denethor saw him as a threat. The man made no effort to hide it when it was just them, alone, and who had the Steward's favor was fresh in both their minds. He could see it, at other times, by the narrowing of steel grey eyes at the mention of his name, the tensing of strong shoulders, the way those eyes followed his movements across a room, waiting, daring him to make a mistake.

Did he see him also as a traitor? Would jealousy and anger twist his perceptions that far? If not, would he nevertheless claim the opportunity to wipe Thorongil from the board? In the chaos, with the Orcs outnumbering them five-to-one and rising, no one would see one blow go awry. No one would question who had made the fatal stroke. The careless stampede of Orcs would ensure his body bore no trace of the original blow.

And if Denethor felt so inclined, could he, Thorongil, move against him in kind? After all, if Denethor would do it once, he would do it again. If Thorongil survived the attempt, Denethor would have to kill him some other time. Kill or be killed.

The thought left him cold, called bile to his throat.

Then Denethor nodded, gaze clear and focused, battle-ready, accepting. Thorongil's shoulders relaxed. He was being paranoid. The sounds of battle returned. Denthor's gaze slid over his shoulder. Over Denethor's, Thorongil saw an Orc, squinty eyes narrowed on the man's unprotected back.

Quick as striking snakes, they passed each other, falling on the enemy that sought to sneak up on them. Three strikes, and Thorongil cleaved helmet and head. He heard Denethor's opponent fall. Wordless and watchful, he stepped back until his back pressed Denethor's. _*I'm here.*_

Denethor firmed the pressure, knocked his helmeted head lightly against Thorongil's. _*Good.*_


	16. Clash, Estel, Gilraen, PG

Title: Clash  
Prompt #17: Fight  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.  
A/N: This was my first attempt to write Gilraen. Traditionally, I followed Cassia and Sio's approach and just killed it off, 'cause it was simpler, but I thought I'd go for ambition. Win, fail? Either way, enjoy.

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"Estel, put up your toys. It's time for your bath." Gilraen entered her son's room to find him on the floor, carved horse in one hand, elven warrior figure in the other. "Now, Estel."

"But I don't need to, Momma," he said. "I had a bath yesterday."

"And you'll have another one today. Now put up your toys." She clapped twice, like her mother used to do when she wouldn't tolerate disobedience.

Estel didn't move, just frowned and lowered his head so his hair partially covered his face.

Gilraen pursed her lips in irritation and set her hands on her hips. "I don't see you moving."

The head ducked further.

"Little boys who don't take their baths don't get to go on hunting trips with their brothers."

Estel's head came up. "No!"

"Excuse me?" Her mother would have swatted her backside for taking that tone.

"You said I could go hunting with 'Dan and 'Ro tomorrow. You promised!"

"You have until the count of five to get up and get in the bathroom or you won't."

Estel jumped to his feet, legs set wide, fists clenched. "But you already said I could go. You promised. And Ada said I could go. You already said!"

"Little boys who don't listen to their mothers don't get to do fun things."

"I'll tell Ada!" he shrieked.

The anger that surged through her locked her back and jaw, drove thought from her mind. She had the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge, to pick up the blasphemous boy that dared yell at her and smack him, and then spank him until his bottom was black and blue.

She exhaled slowly, breathed deep and exhaled again. "Get," she said, very slowly, very deliberately, "in that bath room now."

Estel, eyes wide in a pale face, stared at her a moment, then scampered past without looking at her, hugging the doorframe to stay as far from her as possible, and disappeared into the bathroom.

She didn't object when he pushed the door mostly closed behind him. She needed the space as much as he needed the barrier.

But oh! That thought hurt. She bent double, holding her breath while she clenched her eyes shut. Her son feared her. Her baby's father wasn't her husband. Everything was wrong.

She straightened and heard the water come on in the other room. She should go in, she knew. He was too young yet to bathe unsupervised, and so much depended on her baby boy staying safe. But she felt too raw to face him.

She knew he couldn't be allowed to remember he was Aragorn, Arathorn's son. But it hurt – oh, how it hurt! – to hear Lord Elrond claimed so easily, so casually, for a place that had only ever been meant for her beloved.

Tears burned her eyes. She blinked rapidly, but they spilled anyway. She wiped them away irritably with the palm of her hand. Her mother would be ashamed if she could see her now, still clinging to the past and hurting her son with it.

"Momma?"

She whirled at the small voice. Estel watched her, body hiding behind the door.

"Are you coming?"

She swallowed, tried to smile. "Yes, baby. I'm coming."


	17. Little Hurts, Estel, Gilraen, Elrond, PG

Title: Little Hurts  
Prompt #20: Comfort  
Author: Maranwe  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, locations, etc., belong to their original creator. I make no money from the creation of this fic. It is intended for entertainment only.

_LOTR_

I put down my embroidery. I think I heard something, but it's more the vague sense that something's not right that prompts me from my chair. Momma would've called it a mother's intuition.

My solar – Lord Elrond insisted I have a better room than mine and Estel's quarters for my work – lies at the rear of the house, just around the corner from Lord Elrond's study. I pause there, hidden from sight by the wall and hear a sniffle.

I know before I peak that it's my baby boy. He knocks on the door and pushes inside – I cannot tell if he received invitation. My need to know what's wrong prompts me closer, ignoring the voice of propriety that says I should not eavesdrop. I should not have to in order to know what troubles my son!

I'm close enough fast enough to hear Lord Elrond's voice: "What's wrong, Estel?"

Another sniffle. I can imagine the way he wipes the back of his hand up across his nose. "I fell down, Ada."

"You did?" A chair scrapes – a rare sound. Lord Elrond usually stands before pushing his chair back to protect the floors. "Come here. Let me see."

I risk taking a peek, myself. Lord Elrond remains before his desk, but his chair is pushed back, turned slightly to allow room for the gangling youth of four my son has become. The boy's curls – neat when I sent him to lessons – are unruly, his face wet with tears. His clothes, arms, and legs are filthy, his bare feet black.

Mess and all, Lord Elrond pulls him close and holds him in his lap while he gets a look at scratched and bloody knees.

I smile, and push away the bittersweet nostalgia that prompts me to try and picture this scene with Arathorn. Harder to push away is the jealousy. Estel knows where to find me during the day. I am only a few doors further, and yet he chose the elven lord over his mother.

After last night's scene, I cannot blame him. It doesn't diminish the hurt.

"These look like they came from a hard fall, Estel," Lord Elrond said. "You're being very brave."

A tremulous smile. "They hurt, Ada."

"I imagine they do." Ageless silver eyes pin me in place before I can back away but he releases me quickly and I back down the hall. "Let us go clean them up, and bandage them, and then we can get your Mommy to kiss them better."

"Do you think that will help?"

They stand up, I can hear the shuffling of robes and the light scrape of wood, the patter of little feet. I make it around the corner before they exit and lean against the wall. "I have it on good authority that Mommy's can make everything feel better."

I think I might cry as I slip back into my solar, and how would I explain that to my son. It is so easy to imagine Arathorn is the one taking Estel to clean his cuts, and that it is Arathorn who will bring him back to let me kiss away his hurts. The pain that it's not mixes with the gratefulness that Elrond can put aside more important matters to see to my boy's well-being.

Is it ungrateful to think I could not ask for a better father for Estel? Would the Lady Celebrian, so long gone from these shores, have been a better mother for him?

Blindly, I pick up my embroidery and struggle to chase away the tightness in my chest, to chase the moisture from my breath. It will not do to be crying when Estel and Lord Elrond come find me.

Impatiently, I wipe at my eyes. "Stop it, goose," I chastise myself. Almost, I sound like my mother. "You're being silly."

Then there's a knock – so much sooner than I expected. But I answer automatically. "Come in."

Estel darts in, followed more slowly by Lord Elrond. "Look, Momma," Estel says. He stumbles as he tries to show me his newly bandaged knees and walk closer at the same time. "I fell and hurt myself, but Ada made it all better."

"He did, did he?" I lean forward to study the injury more closely – not that I can see anything but gauze.

Estel nods. "It still hurts, though." His bottom lip trembles artistically.

"It does?" I pull him into my arms and he giggles, then set him on my lap. "Let me see what I can do about that."

I pretend to study his knees intently. Then, hoping Lord Elrond is right so my baby is not disappointed by his mother, I pick up first one knee and place a kiss on top of the bandage, then the other.

When I look at Estel's face, he is smiling, and I pull him toward me to place a kiss on his forehead. "How does that feel?"

"Much better." He twists to put his feet back on the floor. "Do you think I can still go hunting with 'Dan and 'Ro?"

"Why-ever would you not, Estel?"

"Because I fell running up the steps," he said simply. And good little boys don't run up the steps when they've been told not to.

I smile, and smooth his hair back from his face. "I think we can overlook it this time," I say, "so long as Lord Elrond says your injuries are well enough."

"Can I Ada?"

"I think," Lord Elrond began slowly, "that if you cause no trouble for Erestor and eat all of your lunch, that you should be well enough to go hunting with Elladan and Elrohir this afternoon."

"Yay!" He bounced, then twisted and threw his hands around my neck. "Thank you, Momma!" He's across the room in a flash – his knees must not bother him too badly. "Thank you, Ada!"

Lord Elrond kneels for the hug. "Now, off you go." He watches the boy's progress and I can't help but laugh when he immediately orders: "Walk, Estel."

"Thank you," I tell him. I'm not entirely sure what I'm thanking him for – for keeping me involved, for taking care of my boy, for taking both of us in. But the great thing about living with elves is that they seem to understand what you mean even when you can't find the words to say it.

His smile is gentle. "He loves you, Gilraen. There's nothing you can do to change that." At the doorway, he adds: "Mothers don't have to be perfect any more than little boys do."

I laugh, even as the tears come. Yes, somehow, elves always seem to understand. And this one, at least, even knows what to say.


End file.
